This is How it Didn't Happen and Other Short Tales
by toujourspret
Summary: A collection of short pieces written for the now-defunct H/D Flashfic. Includes woobie!kid!Draco, a trip to an opium den, a lesson on being a good sport, and an exploration of exotica.
1. This is How it Didn't Happen

**Note:** This is a collection of shorts in the Harry Potter fandom that I wrote for the H/D Flashfic community.

**This is How it Didn't Happen**

This is how it didn't happen: Draco thrust his (finely-boned, aristocratic) hand out to the scruffy boy on the train, squeezed in between the wall and a sticky-faced ginger monkey. The boy (who just so happens to be Harry Potter—isn't that a wonderful coincidence?) accepted the hand and everything it was offering with nothing more than an apologetic shrug of his shoulders at the redhead. They walked out of the room and in the hall, they stepped on a frizzy-haired girl who was looking for a toad.

This is how it really happened: Draco offered his (slightly grubby and gritty with pasty crumbs) hand to the boy on the train, somehow managing to keep his eyes away from the (stark white, painfully obvious, and only a bit disfiguring) scar on the boy's forehead. The Weasley thing sitting next to Potter laughed, and Potter stared at his hand (left hanging there like a dead fish) in the air. Rude words were exchanged, and Draco left. In the hall, Draco ("accidentally" kicked a beaver-faced boy looking for his toad and) was told off by (Miss Beaver, also known as) Hermione Granger.

This is what happened later: Draco curled in the middle of his bed (with Thuban, the stuffed Dragon he'd had since his sixth birthday), his green silk pajamas rumpled around him. He was flipping idly through a small leather book (filled with wax colored drawings and notes). He had his ever-inking quill (filled with ink that smelled like lime trees) and he crossed out whole paragraphs from the book.

"101 Ways to Become Best Friends With Harry Potter" was ripped out. "16 Things I Want to do Before I Turn 20 (or die, whichever comes first)" had number eight ("Get Harry Potter's Signature") quite vehemently scribbled out. An entire section longer than he cared to admit (about eight pages) devoted to planning summer vacation with Potter at the Manor was incinerated.

Draco settled down with Thuban in his lap, poked his tongue between his lips, and started a new page: "101 Ways to Make Potter Suffer."


	2. Sportsmanship

**Sportsmanship  
**

All Madam Hooch had wanted was a show of good sportsmanship: a press of sweaty fingers into leather padded palms, a quick smile, and a nod of acknowledgement. But the Slytherins weren't good sports; they'd mutter a curse, bare teeth in feral smiles, spit in their gloves before offering their hand. They'd left slugs in the Hufflepuff locker rooms and strode by Ravenclaw, laughing, noses in the air and hands folded under arms.

As the familiar push of cushioning charms lifted him off the ground, Harry wondered what it would be today. He kept a watchful eye on Crabbe and Goyle, who managed to make it through the entire game without using their bats on other players. He listened avidly for strains of "Weasley is Our King," but the only snippets he heard were from the Gryffindor stands. He cross-checked the Slytherin team's every move with the list of fouls he knew, but they came up stunningly clean every time. It was putting him on edge, and he didn't like it.

Harry and Malfoy were slowly circling the pitch, Malfoy pretending to be innocent and Harry so intent on making sure that Malfoy wasn't cheating that he almost missed the fluttering ball of gold that flew so close to his head it almost clipped his ear. The buzz of the tiny wings threw him back into the game, and he dropped into a lazy spiraling dive. Malfoy never really had a chance, Harry smirked, and neither did the snitch. It landed in his palm with a heavy smack against his glove, and as he triumphantly coasted out of the dive with it pinched tightly between his fingers, raised above his head for the whole world to see, Harry sought out his opponent.

He'd never admit it, but the look of defeat on Malfoy's face was sometimes worth more to him than the weighty feel of the snitch and its frantic buzzing wings. He liked to smile at Malfoy and see him scowl, to know that Malfoy knew he wasn't better than everyone else on blood alone. Harry's eyes scanned the pitch as he alighted on the ground, tucking his broom under his arm. He took the snitch to Madam Hooch, who put it away, and joined his team where they waited for whatever antics the Slytherins would perform.

First, the Keepers met. Ron extended his hand and it was gripped firmly, shaken, and dropped. Next came the Chasers, starting with Ginny. Her hand was shaken, as well, and though she winced a bit at the force of the Slytherin's grip, it was uneventful. The Beaters were next, and Crabbe and Goyle somehow managed not to crush Harry's teammates' hands as they, too, shook. There wasn't a slug in sight, and for all appearances they were planning on being on their best behavior. Of course, Harry didn't believe this for a minute, and when Malfoy reached out his hand, still covered with a fine leather glove, Harry crossed his arms.

"What are you up to, Malfoy?" he demanded.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Malfoy answered smoothly. He wiggled his fingers to emphasize that his hand was still out.

Growling, Harry grabbed it, pulling Malfoy closer to snarl, "I'm going to find out what you're up to. I don't buy this gracious loser act."

Malfoy's eyes hardened slightly, but, shaking his head, he smiled slightly. His grip shifted suddenly, and Harry felt the surprisingly warm press of fingers on the inside of his wrist, almost like a firm caress on the small strip of skin above his gloves. With a wink, Malfoy pulled his hand back, repeating the stroke unmistakably. "Good game, Potter," Malfoy's tone was oddly victorious. Harry watched him saunter back toward his team, and he tried to ignore the tingle that had spread up his arm.


	3. The Method

**The Method**

It didn't take much to break Draco Malfoy: a well-placed touch, a few soft words, and a prison sentence in Azkaban for twenty years. Draco remembers the sentencing trial as if it were only yesterday when Potter had stood before the Wizarding world in his poorly-pressed dress robes, hair touseled as if he'd only just rolled out of bed. He'd pronounced on all of them--men, women, children, friends, enemies, classmates. Lovers. Well, ex-lovers. All of them traitors or opponents of the side of light.

He remembers the feeling like falling over a cliff as he stared into Potter's fever-green eyes and asked as loud as he could without moving his lips: why? He remembers the feeling of hands clutching his wrists and shoulders wrenching as he was pulled from the room, and he still hears the echoes on the stone of words once spoken that can never be taken back.

He wondered, at first, if Potter said it because he was angry. It had been Draco, after all, to kill both Ronald and Ginevra Weasley. He wondered if his sentence--"I recommend a period of time no longer than one hundred years, no less than twenty."--was revenge, ruthless anger over friends and lovers lost. Then he wondered if it was because of their failed relationship; maybe if Draco had ever said the words, he wouldn't be locked away. Maybe Potter was punishing him because he never said it.

Potter had refused to talk to him after the trial, forgone visits when Draco had bribed the guards to send for him. It wasn't until this year, two years from the completion of his sentence, that he'd deigned to return. They've moved him to a nice cell, all white with a large bed instead of straw in the corner, but there are still bars on the windows and the guards still check on him every ten minutes. It's nicer than the one his father is in, and Draco marvels in the freedoms granted the Hero's favorite Villain.

Every time Potter visits, they fuck. He can't keep his hands off of him, even though he can smell the Mudblood on his skin, mixed with the cologne she bought him for Christmas this year. He doesn't know if he does it despite her claim to Potter or in spite of it. All he knows that these are his favorite, clearest memories while he's locked away in this world of empty boxes.

When Potter shows up again today, Draco isn't surprised. He fights valiantly to keep his grin inside as hands are drawn to his too-thin limbs and lips seek out his own. Potter devours him like a dying man's last meal, and they writhe together on the white bed in the middle of Draco's cell. It feels like it's been ages since the last time, and when Potter's lips wrap around his shaft, Draco wails at the cieling. Fingers twisting--slip pale, sweaty, sweet--through mussed linens and tousled hair, mouth agape and pleading--raw, red, open--with teeth that shine like pearls glimmering in the half light streaming in through the window, he writhes, back arched and bowed like the footbridge in his mother's favorite garden, and he feels the exact moment that the boughs break and his heart falls heavy at his feet, lips curled in silent scream as the pleasure drags its fearsome claws down his back and through his cock and his traitorous tongue gasps around the words he's always hoped he'd never say: I love you, sobbed between a pant and a splatter.

The words stop his lover instantly, eyes glazed over from lust and the agony of realization that only Draco's insanity afforded him the luxury of spilling those three little words. It's hours later, outside the little hospital room as he talks to the head nurse of Draco's ward when the chill that has crawled up his spine finally begins to fade into tired numbness.

"We've been making a lot of progress, Mr. Potter," Sheryl tells him, and her eyes are sympathetic. "He seems to be recognizing small things: the passage of time, changes in location, even differences between his nurses. We have every confidence that he'll make a full recovery."

"But how long will it take?" Harry slumps over, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of the situation. "It's already been years. Will he eventually wake up one morning all right?"

"I'm sorry, Harry," Sheryl's hand on his arm is light but comforting. "There's still so much we don't know about his case. We don't know which spells were used--if it wasn't caused by a toxin. We can only wait and hope he can tell us someday." Harry nods and staggers out to the lobby where Hermione is waiting.

"Better this time?" she asks, her tone hopeful.

"No. He still thinks he's the one that killed them, and somehow he's decided that you and I are married," Harry sighs. "I just don't understand this!"

"I'd make a joke about being mad, but it doesn't seem apropos," Hermione's voice is soft. Harry chuckles quietly, and she grips his hand tightly. "It'll be okay. He'll get better. You'll see."


	4. Chasing

**Chasing**

Long tendrils of smoke the color of the palest spring buds drifted above him, and he chased them with fingers that trailed along the air like a flower bursting to bloom. The ceiling above him was painted blue, shifting like the cosmos and speckled with clouds. The floor beneath him was slick smooth oriental cherry and his other hand clutched the silk pillow beneath him as he listened to the other men in the room cough and sigh, slip against silk and sink full body into the floor liquid like spilled water. Harry had already splashed between the floorboards and was beginning to solidify again.

He didn't remember where he was or why he was here, eyes closed against the faded cheap red lanterns' light and chest heaving with pleasantly numb heaviness. A soft hand pressed his shoulder and he rolled his head toward it, lashes fluttering butterflies open to reveal the image of a slim young thing white against the red of the room. The walls and floor swam around him, but those clear grey eyes were still, pressing him back into the cracks in the floor. Red lips more vibrant than peeling paint hovered over him, and he tugged at his cravat limply, the silk sliding against his throat like a dangerous whisper. Those lips curled up in a wicked promise and the hands tugged him into a sitting position.

Harry's mind was a fog as he was led by the hand from the room of smoke into a cool blue room. He slumped over onto the bed and the boy straddled him, leaned over his body and ran his fingers through Harry's hair, scratching with feminine fingernails.

"Five pound," the boy hissed, and Harry felt his heavy head rock yes. The boy grinned again and ground against Harry's belly. The world was jumping in and out of focus as the boy stretched Harry's suspenders off of his shoulders. His vision shook as the first button, then the second and third on his pants were deftly maneuvered open, long slender fingers crawling inside. Harry's own hands clutched at the boy's thighs as he arched into that terrible knowing hand. His body seized and his thighs clenched as his release came rushing over him, and at the boy's laughing eyes he felt his cheeks burn. The boy laughed easily and gripped his fingers, guiding them to the bulge obscenely displayed in his own tight pants.

"Keep it here," he whispered in Harry's ear, rocking against the loosely cupped palm. His hair fluttered with his movement and his cheeks flushed. Beads of sweat formed between his gathered brows and Harry watched his tongue sneak out to lick passion-dried lips. The boy's slender hips shook suddenly, and with a languid smile, he leaned over Harry again, all lips and tongue. The fog came back and Harry melted back into the bed, absorbed by the linens like the sweat from his hair. When he woke, his money clip lay empty next to his head and his mouth tasted like ash, the lingering scent of poppies in the air.


	5. In the Palace of the Rats

**In the Palace of Rats**

He hates this place, where the sun beats his shoulders and everything smells sour with sweat. Every child in Britain has heard of India as the land of spice, full of bronzed bodies and sable hair, elephants and tigers, rajahs and fakirs, but all Harry's seen so far is fat, greasy men trying to sell the foreigner useless baubles, children staring at his pale English skin as though they've never seen a man so _white_ before, and women everywhere whose eyes slide easily off of him as if he were covered with a notice-me-not. He feels out of place in this crowded village not far from Bikaner, where his clothes grow damp only minutes out of his hotel room and his hair clings wetly to his forehead as he lays on the bed of stale-smelling bed sheets staring at the ceiling, long, sticky night after long, sticky night. No one looks at him, no one talks to him, and no one answers his questions.

He's been looking for Malfoy in this hellhole for three weeks without a sign of the boy he remembers from school. He's called Moody three times already, the fire warming his hotel room to even more unbearably hot temperatures as he reasoned, then argued, then pleaded that there'd been no hints as to Malfoy's location, or even that he was still here, or had been at all. Moody was gruff, but his tone brooked no argument as he told Harry to look harder, that there must be something he was missing.

Harry searches everywhere. He's been searching everywhere: the wizarding section of Bikaner, the wealthy areas around the city, the poor part of town, the whorehouses and the temples. He's seen no sign—only more brown bodies and mouths that refuse to speak to him. He finds the whole thing discouraging, and as he takes a breath in the alleyway, a rat scurries over his foot. Sucking in his breath sharply, Harry is reminded of Wormtail, sent to Azkaban near the end of the war three years ago, and shudders. He is about to kick it away from his cuff when a voice comes from behind him.

"You must not do that, _sahib_," a young boy, perhaps ten years old, says. Harry turns to look at him. The boy's dark eyes are serious as he continues, "You will displease Durga."

"I don't effing care about Durga!" Harry snaps. "I just want to go back to my cold, dreary London and leave this sun-baked hell."

"What keeps you here, then?" the boy's tone isn't bitter; he cocks his head to the side and peers at Harry through long lashes.

"I'm looking for someone. Someone I used to know a long time ago," Harry tells him, seizing the opportunity to ask after Malfoy. "He's short—or he may be tall by now—and his hair is middling length, but he could have cut it, and," Harry stops to think, "actually, I don't know much about him anymore. I haven't seen him in years."

"You should go to the temple of Karni Mata, _sahib_. If you don't mind my saying," the boy suggests.

"Why? What's there?"

"The temple is a fortunate place, blessed by the goddess Durga. They say that if you find one white rat at the temple of Karni Mata, you can make a wish and it will come true," the boy's teeth flash like pearls as he smiles. "I don't know if she will help you find your friend, but everyone could do with the blessing of a goddess."

It took Harry only three hours to find someone to tell him how to get to the temple, but as he stands in front of the cracked, dirty building, he wonders if the man who gave him directions hadn't lied to get a laugh. The walls are yellowed and the entire building smells like urine, but judging from the crowd teeming around it, the building is important. There is a great deal of people massed around a fence that looks into a small courtyard, and the floor of this courtyard is a moving blanket of rats.

His stomach roils and he has to fight the urge to vomit, but suddenly a flash of white appears in the courtyard. It's a flash he wasn't expecting—it's not a rat. Harry shoves his way out of the crowd and fights through protesting patrons to push into the building. When he first sees Malfoy standing there, ankle-deep in black _rattus rattus_, Harry is stunned. Malfoy looks so white compared to everything Harry has experienced for the last three weeks that he almost seems to _glow_ against the dingy walls of the temple.

"Livingston, I presume?" Malfoy's little smirk is the most genuine expression he's ever seen on the other man's face, and all of the important speeches he's prepared for this moment die on his tongue.

"Come home," Harry hears his own voice, the sound of English strange and thick when surrounded by Farsi.

"Home?" Malfoy spits the word like it is ash on his tongue.

"Yes. Come back to England."

"Why would I go back _there_?"

"Please, Malfoy. We've been looking for you for a long time. I've been looking for you," Harry's legs feel like lead, but he can feel his hand reaching out to him. He can't tear his eyes away from the halo of light caught in Malfoy's hair from the window behind him.

"There's nothing there for me."

"There could be," Harry says, and he doesn't understand this statement, even as he reaches again for Malfoy, whose features twist oddly. Harry realizes that he's fighting with himself. "There could be," he prompts again, but Malfoy only stares. With a sigh of defeat, Harry turns to leave, but is stopped by the feeling of Malfoy's fingers sliding comfortably into his palm.

"There could be?" Malfoy's voice is coy, his eyes averted.

"Yes," Harry says firmly.


End file.
